


A mistake, clearly.

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunkenness, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, grif is a pessimist, simmons is a happy drunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-13 10:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: This is so much better than Simmons fucked up on methshrooms. Grif didn't think it could be done, but there he is, defying expectations, somehow being more entertaining than jumping-off-the-walls-while-hysterically-laughing Simmons. Three-maragaritas Simmons is more of a sloppily-walking-into-before-ambivalently-bumping-off-walls-while-giggling kind of guy. It helps that he can understand some of the ridiculous shit he keeps saying, instead of it all being a rushed, lost blur of noise as he zooms circles around everyone else.





	1. wistful and longing and all that dumb shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The space pirates should NOT have been called the space pirates.

This is so much better than Simmons fucked up on methshrooms. Grif didn't think it could be done, but there he is, defying expectations, somehow being more entertaining than jumping-off-the-walls-while-hysterically-laughing Simmons. Three-maragaritas Simmons is more of a sloppily-walking-into-before-ambivalently-bumping-off-walls-while-giggling kind of guy. It helps that he can understand some of the ridiculous shit he keeps saying, instead of it all being a rushed, lost blur of noise as he zooms circles around everyone else. 

"--and, and, I just don't see why they get to be called _pirates._ That's _cool._ The enemy shouldn't get to be cool! We have a hard enough time as it," cue an interrupting hiccup that was definitely more amusing than cute, "is." 

"Had," Grif corrected him idly. "Past tense. We beat their asses, Simmons." 

Simmons ignored this truth that was currently inconvenient for his chosen rant of the moment. "We shoulda called them... bandits, or some lame shit." 

"The cockroaches of space," Grif suggested. 

"Yeah!" Simmons brightened from his drunken funk now that Grif was cooperating with his mood. Definitely not cute. _Funny._

Simmons bumped into the corner of the turn of a hallway and spun in a full circle before coming to a tottering stop, cross eyed, blinking and bewildered. He looked helplessly around him, apparently hopelessly lost now. Grif hid a grin and shoved him gently around until he was walking in the right direction again. It was just the pleasant buzz of a few beers that had him so affectionate that he was actually helping Simmons along to his room instead of to Donut or Sarge's (or Carolina's? No, even he wasn't that cruel), he swore. Unlike Simmons, he wasn't a total light weight. The man swayed, but Grif judged he didn't need the whole arm-over-shoulder treatment, just the occasional helpful poke as a reminder of his course. 

"The rats of the stars," Simmons offered, and Grif stared blankly for a moment before he remembered the earlier topic of conversation. Huh, that'd been the longest he'd been able to hold onto the thread of a topic all night since margarita number two. 

"The shower drain accumulation of astronomical horrors." 

Drunk Simmons spent a long moment digesting the multiple syllables in that sentence before apparently getting it and subsequently _loving_ it. He broke out into uncontrollable giggles, unrestrained and unconcious in a way he never was while sober, Grif realized. _Holy shit I gotta get him to laugh like that when he isn't out of it,_ he thought. 

Holy fuck he was glad he'd only mentally said that. He kind of regretted that even he heard that much sap coming from yours truly (over a hopeless cause). Okay, now he was bumming himself out on top of being embarrassed. The evening--and Simmons-- was swiftly making him more wistful and longing and all that dumb shit rather than charmed and indulgent. Which was also dumb, now that he thought about it. He poked Simmons down a different hallway, deciding that the scenic route to his teammates room was over. It was nothing but cold hard effeciency that would take him the shortest amount of time to get them both to a bed. (Not the _same_ bed.) 

"Grif," Simmons said. Rather than prompting him, Grif just waited for Simmons get to the point himself. "Grif, Grif, Grif, Grifffff." 

A mistake, clearly. 

"What," he grunted. 

"Love you," he said happily, simply. 

Grif choked so hard he had to take a break from walking. It wasn't even an excuse this time. 

Simmons continued forwards a few steps before he apparently noticed that Grif was lagging, slowly and laboriously halted his forwards momentum, and then clumsily turned courses with a wide swing, clipping _both_ walls somehow on the way, like the shittiest car ever. 

"Grif," Simmons whined, leaning on him, and god dammit, this was why he didn't want to do the arm-over-shoulder thing. Drunk Simmons was _affectionate._ Drunk Simmons _nuzzled._ It was rude and unfair and terrible. "Stop taking breaks. This is taking forever. I just wanna sit down." And then Simmons got a look on his face that told Grif that he thought he'd just got a brilliant idea, and his ideas weren't exactly top notch even when he wasn't inebriated, so he tried to get his guard back up as much as he could after _love you._

It wasn't much, apparently, because Simmons took him down with him to the hallway floor with insulting ease and swiftness, falling half on top of him. "We can just sit here," Simmons confided in a confident whisper. 

Grif groaned. 

Simmons went back to snuggling into him, this time into his chest, hands clamping down tight on his shirt when Grif half heartedly tried to shove him off. 

 _Love you._ Obviously not like that. Obviously. 

God damn his generosity. Grif was seriously regretting his decision not to just set Simmons loose on the base to fend for himself before inevitably ending up sleeping on the roof or some shit. This was the _last time_ he was being nice, ever. He really meant it this time. 

"I want to sleep in a bed," Grif pointed out. Would arguing with a drunk Simmons be harder or easier? He'd only encouraged and led him along by the nose all night, he wouldn't know. 

"You're soft." Well, he had his answer. 

 _"I_ want to sleep in a bed. Quit making everything about you, Simmons." 

"Okay," he gave in easily, and Grif blinked down at him (a mistake, his hair was tousled and grin goofy as hell. Fuck, not cute, _not cute--)._ "But only if we get to share." 

Grif tipped his head back and groaned. Simmons lunged at the opportunity and nuzzled into his throat. Grif squawked and shoved him roughly back down to his chest. Simmons didn't seem to mind. "No. Dumb." 

"Yes. Smart." He pouted, and Grif averted his eyes. "Like we used to, Grif. C'mon." 

Like they used to. Right, right, they used to share a room, back in basic, back in Blood Gulch, back on their long treks on various Save Church quests, crash site, and Chorus. They'd bunked throughout it all, sharing rooms (but never a bed, too much, too close). It had felt almost surreal to have a room without Simmons, hell, a room to himself _period._ Before the army he and Kai had lived together in one room apartment after (technically abandoned) one room apartment. He slept poorly the first few months after they settled down on the moon with their huge, luxurious, empy bases with many, many rooms, a single furnished bedroom ready for each and every one of them with names on the doors and everything. It'd be _weird_ to room together in a base like this. (He still slept poorly. They kept coming up with excuses to stay up all night and visit each other and play cards and bitch until the break of dawn, waving it away as just being unwise and staying up too late, before falling asleep all over each other on the communal couch where it wouldn't be weird, it'd just be an _accident._ Accidents were safe.) 

Don't get ahead of yourself, Grif. Don't go getting your expectations up only to have them unavoidably crushed. Sharing a room, not a bed. Just for one night, with booze as an excuse to boot. His heart still beat a bit faster at the thought though. He _did_ want to share a room with Simmons, even though he wouldn't admit to it under threat of torture. It had been... domestic. Private and theirs and it had been a good thing it had stopped for exactly those reasons. Stay realistic, Grif. Keep your hopes down, Grif. 

"There's only one bed," he said dryly. 

"It's okay," Simmons responded, unanxious and unbothered as he so rarely was. "You can get the bed and I can just lie on you." He found a way cuddle harder. "Soft," he repeated oh so helpfully. "I like that you're soft. I'm all hard and metall-y." 

_Love you._

Okay, this absolutely had to stop. 

Grif bravely and boldly stood up, Simmons falling off of him with a squeak _(not_ adorable, don't stop repeating it). Grif gave in and picked him up, tossing his metal arm over his shoulder. Simmons predictably buried his face in Grif's long mane of curly dark hair. Tough it out, Grif. 

He determinedly dragged Simmons in the direction of his room, Simmons not helping one bit. Oh, Grif didn't doubt he tried, but he certainly didn't succeed, stumbling over his own feet more often than not. And there it finally was. _Captain Richard Simmons_ read a neat little plaque. Grif glared at it. If it weren't for it, they could've maybe ignored the count of rooms without having to confront it and he wouldn't be in this damn mess. He reached out to open the door, Simmons' hand slithering off his shoulders without Grif's firm grip around his wrist to keep it there, but he just tightened his hold around Simmon's waist. (He could surround his whole waist with just one arm _easy._ He had to stop thinking about that.) Simmon's now freed arm settled instead loosely around his hips. 

The evening was officially not fun anymore, and instead just hellish. Drunk Simmons was _never happening again._

Turn the knob, shove the door open, drag one uncooperative clingy drunk across the threshold before dumping him unceremoniously on his bed. 

"Well, bye," he said, thoughts intent on the bottle of much harder liquor he had squirreled away in his bedroom. 

Simmons, torso and arms spread eagle over his duvet and legs still on the floor like someone had shot him with a tranq gun mind-bedtime prayer (Simmons never prayed, actively avoided it), whined. Like a dog. Maybe he'd shut up if Grif helped him the rest of the way onto his bed, Grif was considering, when some groggy spark of sort-of intellect fired off for an instant in his friend's brain for one god awful moment and he abruptly kicked out backwards with one leg (his _metal_ leg), hitting Grif squarely right below his knee. Grif yelped on his downwards descent, and hated his life. 

Grif ended up with his face planted in the duvet cover right underneath Simmons' armpit. It smelled of the exact right amount of military issue deoderant, the fucking nerd. And now Grif was smelling Simmons' pits. Fucking fantastic. 

"You said you'd stay," Simmons said, whiny and accusatory. 

"I definitely never agreed to that," Grif said. 

"Shut up and sleep with me." 

 _Oh god why._ Forget Donut, drunk Simmons was the goddamn master of obliviously saying unfortunate shit that made Grif want to kill himself, violently and dramatically and with a whole lot of explosions. Or perhaps just be spontaneously swallowed up by the ground. The fact that the ground didn't work like that was just more proof that if there was a God then He was a sadistic son of bitch. 

"Just..." _Love you. But only if we get to share. Sleep with me._ "If I... _platonically_ share this bed with you like a total bro, will you just stop talking?" Please for the love of a hateful god? 

"Okay!" Simmons happily agreed with zero arguing or bitching, and really, it was incredible what alcohol could do. 

And that's how Grif ends up nestled underneath Simmons' covers with a redhead limpet clinging to him like a koala against his will. The both of them fully clothed, because Simmons was sure to freak out tommorrow and also Grif had not only a seed of deceny deep deep inside of himself, but also a healthy sense of self preservation. He didn't think he could even take shirtless Simmons right now at most. It was a cruel universe. 

Unsurprisingly, Simmons' voice manages to crack three times in only one sentence that very next morning. And his furiously blushing face is a familiar sight that is definitely not painfully adorable. 


	2. Face it, Simmons. You’re a lightweight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, the devious plotting, the movie night, and then the morning after again.

Simmons has gotten drunk a total of three times.

Once, his father had forgotten to lock up his liquor cabinet and he’d impulsively mixed together a glass of an alcoholic monstrosity by pouring just a little bit out of each bottle into a glass so his father wouldn’t notice, carefully nudging each bottle back into its place, making sure it was correct to the _inch,_ his heart beating loudly and wildly like a drumbeat the entire time. He puked before he was even finished with the glass, and was left to the miserable task of cleaning his carpet before his mother noticed while his vision was doubled and his mouth tasted like death. Clearly, chugging was not for him.

The second time, he was at his first college party. It was one of those where just anyone could walk in from the street and be welcomed, the door wide open the entire time, because Simmons wasn’t the kind of person who was specifically invited to parties. He grabbed one of those red cups, thinking _so I’ll have something to do with my hands_ and _I don’t want to look weird._ He’d sipped at it nervously whenever he stuttered (which was often) as an escape, comforting himself _this isn’t a horrifyingly potent father-scotch-and-gin mix I’m going to be okay._ And he had been okay, once the cup was empty. So he’d gotten another one, because he didn’t feel like puking at all, and his hands still needed something to do and he still didn’t want to look weird and he still stuttered when a pretty (any) girl approached him, or when an especially intimidating looking (or pretty, except guys aren’t pretty) guy so much as glanced at him. And then a third one. And then he lost count, and that’s when shit started to go wrong for Simmons. Long story short, he woke up to over a dozen dicks scrawled on his face in permanent marker and he didn’t try to go to another party again.

The third time, Donut made margaritas for movie night. Simmons was determined not to make a total idiot out of himself in front of all of his friends (more than he could prevent anyways), but Donut assured them that they had a very low alcohol content, they’d tasted super tasty, and long story short Simmons woke up in Grif’s arms with a strange fruity tang in the back of his mouth and a bare few hazy memories of last night. Something about space cockroaches…?

Wait. Hold up. Something was off there. Fruity tang? No, totally natural, considering. Movie night with Donut and the others? It checked out. In Grif’s arms?

Simmons obliterated his chances of just slipping out of Grif’s hold and sneaking out of the room, thus avoiding what was promising to be one of the most embarrassing social interactions of his life (and he’d had oh so many and they’d been oh so painful), near instantly by shrieking as he caught up with his train of thought, catapulting upwards with zero grace or subtlety.

 _“Jesuswhatthefuck!”_ Grif contributed to their calm and mature conversation in a very calm and mature way, blinking with groggy panic up at him.

“UM,” Simmons said. “I’ll just! I’ll leave!” Why wouldn’t his voice stop cracking!? They were _clothed,_ nothing had _happened._ Simmons quickly (and hopefully surreptitiously) checked whether they were both clothed. They were.

“This is your room dumbass,” he grumbled, settling down and pulling his pillow out from under his head and pressing it down on his face. Simmons sorta hoped he’d choke under there. He looked around and saw a relaxing lack of noxious clothing piles. 

“... Then _get out!”_

“Nooooo,” Grif whined.

“Why are you even here!”

 _“You_ asked me to sleep here,” Grif grumpily pointed out, and Simmons’ jaw clamped shut with a _clack_ as he desperately tried to remember this. He failed. _Had_ it happened? Or was Grif just lying to him in the hopes that he wouldn’t have to get out of bed just yet? … That totally sounded like something Grif would do. Simmons wished not for the first time (or the last, he feared) that he could read his friend better. He certainly seemed to have an easier time of it. Unfair.

“Why would I do that,” he muttered resentfully before instantly regretting it. Shit, how much had drunk Simmons said? How desperate (ugh) had he come off as?

Grif dragged the pillow off his face enough that his mismatched half lidded eyes could peek up over at Simmons. Simmons hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt.

“Apparently, you miss being roommates,” he said, voice and mostly hidden expression unreadable.

Well, not as bad as he’d feared, but. Still kind of embarrassingly honest.

“Are you sure I didn’t slam back a shot of bleach while I was at it?” Simmons asked. “Because I’ve got recurring nightmares of how messy you made our room.”

“Certain as the sun rising in the East,” he replied glibly. “Face it, Simmons. You’re a lightweight.”

In the end, Grif laid claim to Simmons’ bed for four more hours, time which Simmons spent on showering, grooming, eating, training, showering again, help Sarge draw up some new strategies for fighting gravity while simultaneously managing to avoid having to help him implement any of those suicidal strategies at least for the day (a rare victory), get drawn into a ridiculous argument between Caboose and Tucker which Wash eventually decided to mediate and solve by way of the trusty coin flip (Caboose won, and he certainly wasn’t a humble winner when Tucker was involved), walk past Carolina trying to helplessly communicate with Lopez by way of miming, before he finally found Donut again.

“Please don’t do the downward facing dog position while I’m trying to talk to you,” he said.

“Simmons, it’s important to follow a routine, and I’ve been following this one faithfully ever since Doc showed it to me years ago.”

“Can’t you just do that one later?”

“Okay, how about this one?”

“Oh my GOD. Is your spine okay!? How is your crotch pointing at me from _that_ angle?” It’d actually almost be logistically and anatomically interesting if it weren’t so horrifying. “Okay, nevermind! I’ll just keep my eyes closed, I don’t need my eyes for this. Margarita movie night was... fun, Donut.”

“Was it?” he asked happily. Simmons heard a disturbing cracking sound, like someone cracking their knuckles, except it went on for just a bit too long to be right. This was almost worse. “I’m glad! You really seemed like you were enjoying it. I just had to try it because of the alliteration, you know?”

Simmons forced himself to go on, not pausing to think about any of the strange noises he was hearing or why he was doing this. “Can we do it again? Next Monday?”

“Sure!”

“Great! Good talk. Good luck with your yoga. Ow!”

“Why are you walking around with your eyes closed, Simmons?” Carolina asked.

“No reason…”

* * *

 

Everything is fuzzy and warm, and Wonder Woman just stabbed another guy.

“Wonder Woman five is the best one,” he said with great confidence, even though sober Simmons would usually have far more to say on the subject.

“She _does_ blow up a castle in this one,” Grif granted.

Tucker passes him another margarita, and Simmons downs it happily.

“Hey, maybe we should cut him off,” Grif protested. “He--”

He cuts himself off as Simmons nuzzled into his side. Ahh, holy shit yes, so warm and soft. It’s like Grif was made for hugging.

“Nah, he looks like he’s enjoying himself!” Tucker said with a big grin. “You can handle it, right, Simmons?”

“So long as it isn’t a father-scotch-and-gin mix…”

“Holy shit!” Carolina says. She’s on margarita number seven, if Simmons has his count right. “I did the exact same thing when I was a kid!”

“Must be some sorta rich kid universal experience,” Tucker proclaimed confidently.

 _Upper middle class isn’t rich,_ Simmons doesn’t say, because if he did he’d get a mouthful of hair. Grif smelled like the chicken they’d had for dinner…

Diana Prince snaps a guy’s neck, everyone cheers (except for Simmons, who’s preoccupied, and Grif, who’s just quiet for some reason), and Simmons snakes an arm over Grif’s stomach, clutching at his shirt, closing his eyes. He could fall asleep like this.

“Lightweight…” Grif whispers, but Simmons hears him because he’s close. It reminds him of something.

“Lemme sleep with you t’night,” he mumbles, and oops, he forgot, now his mouth is full of hair. He leans back a little regretfully and spits it out, starts trying to pick strands of hair off his tongue.

“And you call _me_ gross,” Grif says. But he lets Simmons nestle back into his side.

* * *

 

In the morning, he wakes up with a fruity tang in the back of his mouth, held in Grif’s arms. Hypothesis tested and proven: drunk Simmons leads to waking up cuddling with Grif. Of course, his sample size is pretty small. He might have to do this a few more times… like every movie night. It was okay, his liver was robotic.

He hadn’t shrieked when he woke up this time. Grif slept on. After a long moment of deliberation, Simmons closed his eyes and followed suit. 


	3. You’re not the only lush around here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the alternate titles for this chapter: "anything but Reservoir Dogs" "a new low" and "I’ll unclench in hell"

Grif knows, he just KNOWS, Simmons is gonna pull that shit again tonight. That shit where Donut would set down the margarita tray, everyone would argue about which movie they should watch for like a fucking hour (during which Simmons would sip on a margarita and vote on anything with space ships or a superhero in it), and then everyone would argue about seating arrangements (during which Simmons would drink a second margarita and vote on Caboose getting the seat closest to the bathroom), and then everyone would finally settle in to watch the movie and bitch about it (during which Simmons would slam back a third margarita and Grif would have to suffer through the rest of the movie being viciously cuddled in full sight of everyone). You know. That shit.

So instead of suffering through that again he unearths his bottle of the Good Shit™, and gets absolutely fucking hammered in his room, alone. Which isn’t sad at all.

Fuck movie night.

* * *

Simmons had been unofficially and unanimously chosen to go and drag Grif’s ass out of wherever he’d holed up and drag him to suffer through movie night with the rest of them without a word being spoken about it-- or maybe he’d just jumped to the familiar task of Grif-wrangling without having to be prodded into it after all of these years.

While Grif did usually need to be forced into doing work at shotgun-point, movie night wasn’t one of those occasions. He got so sit while doing it, snacks were expected, and no one was liable to notice (or care if they did) if he happened to fall asleep halfway through, so long as Simmons dutifully poked him in the side if/whenever he started snoring. And sometimes the odds were in his favour and a movie he actually liked was chosen.

So in conclusion, movie night wasn’t really an activity Grif went out of his way expending effort to avoid. So it had probably just slipped his mind and he’d fallen asleep or something. It didn’t even occur to Simmons to be worried.

It never occurred to Simmons to worry when he actually _should_ worry. Only baseless, useless worrying here!

In his defense, at first everything looks like he thought it would. He opens the door and reflexively stops himself from inspecting the filthy room too closely before his skin starts crawling, because if he does he just knows he won’t be able to leave the room until he’s cleaned it as thoroughly as if he was trying to hide a murder scene, and he’d like to make it back to the rec room fast enough that he’ll be able throw his vote in favor for _anything but Reservoir Dogs,_ and also because the longer he takes the higher the odds that Tucker’s going to make some sort of lewd joke implying--stuff, increases.

Anyways. Horrifyingly, bafflingly dirty room that he refuses to pay too much attention to. An odd hard to pin down smell that he’s depressingly used to. Grif, snoring away on his bed. Yup, everything looks just like he thought it would. Simmons approaches him and pokes him harshly in the ribs, definitely not his semi-gentle stop-snoring rib poke.

“Ffffuh, what,” Grif says.

“Too lazy to properly pronounce your swear words. You’ve reached a new low, Grif. Also, you’re missing movie night, come on!”

“Oh god shit fuck no,” he replied. Rude asshole wouldn’t even open his eyes. Simmons leaned further in to shake him, but then recoiled a little when he his hindbrain screamed _wrong!_ at him. He blinked for a moment, before he registered what had felt so wrong. The depressingly familiar scent that clung to Grif like his perpetual three day scruff was _changed._ Just enough to hit his Grif-scent Uncanny Valley, just enough to vaguely remind him of something from college maybe…?

“Have you been drinking?” he asked, incredulous. Not that Grif had a thing for being constantly sober, but he usually only drank when they all got together for something. Like movie night, which they were missing.

“You’re not the only lush around here, Simms,” he drawled, finally blinking his eyes open blearily.

 _“Lush!?”_ he squeaked indignantly. _(Simms!?_ his brain squeaked at him. _Can he keep calling us that?_ his hindbrain asked his brain excitedly. His consciousness didn’t deign to acknowledge the question.)

His eyes settled unsteadily on his face, and he smiled a crooked, sloppy sort of smile and snorted a little. “C’mere,” he said.

Simmons had gotten a lot heavier after his cyborg operation, but that didn’t change the fact that the sixty meat percent of him was still ridiculously light, and his center of gravity had only gotten worse ever since mostly one half of his body had been replaced by metal. So when Grif swept his arm behind Simmons’ back, he tumbled helplessly with a squawk onto Grif’s chest.

“See how _you_ like it,” Grif grumbled.

“Ex _cuse_ me!?” Multiple teachers had assured him his voice would stop cracking as soon as puberty was over for him. Well, those teachers were lying assholes.

Grif didn’t seem to be interested in what Simmons had to say about the situation, instead adjusting himself (and to Simmons’ flustered anger, _Simmons)_ for maximum comfort. And, oh, great, now he was back in Grif’s arms again. _This wasn’t supposed to happen before tomorrow,_ he internally panicked, while he externally froze in a very poor form of self defense. This was supposed to happen tomorrow. He was supposed to have the excuse of being drunk, and not being able to remember how he’d ended up in the bed in the first place, and he’d have the chance to wake up before Grif because he _always_ woke up before Grif, everyone did, and then he’d have the chance to stop blushing and gather his wits (and soak it in and enjoy it while it lasted) and now he was sober and awake and he’d remember this all with crystal clarity and he could totally break this hold and escape to the rec room _goddamn it,_ fuck his cyborg strength, it wasn’t cool at all right now. He needed an excuse.

“You’re not that hard and metall-y,” Grif said in a consoling sort of voice. “Just watch your pointy ass elbows. Seriously, _unclench.”_

 _“I’ll unclench in hell,”_ he gritted out.

Grif snorted again, a warm breath of air washing lightly over the top of Simmons’ hair. Some part of him started quietly screaming on the inside.

Now. He’d leave _now._

Now.

One of Grif’s hand reached up to the back of Simmons’ head, and he slowly scratched it. Simmons sighed and loosened, entirely involuntary.

“You suck,” Simmons groaned. What he really meant was, of course, _I suck._

* * *

“Man, I bet you they’re banging,” Tucker said, eyes glued to the screen.

“Whatever they’re doing,” Carolina muttered. “I’m going to make them _suffer_ for not being here to argue against Reservoir Dogs.” 

Caboose shushed them. 


End file.
